


aimer et être aimé

by runandgo



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Canon Era, Enjoltaire Week 2017, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-16 19:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11259216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runandgo/pseuds/runandgo
Summary: If there's one thing Enjolras can count on, it's that in every world, in every universe, they are together.





	aimer et être aimé

**Author's Note:**

> written for day 4 of enjoltaire week 2017. the prompt was alternate universe and i love my canon era so i had to... look at this from a different angle. i've never participated in a challenge/ship week before, and i'm not sure i'm entirely satisfied with this, but i got it in on time, so i'm proud of that! 
> 
> as usual, this is unbetaed, so any mistakes are my own. i hope you enjoy!

If there's one thing Enjolras can count on, it's that in every world, in every universe, they are together.

For some reason, Enjolras doesn't die like people should. Oh, he can die, make no mistake - he's died in so many ways, screaming and crying and bleeding, but he doesn't go anywhere. Except the next place he wakes up. A new name but the same face, a different location but the same theme. Always a revolution. Always something to fight for. 

The other thing that remains the same is him. A man. Black curly hair and striking blue eyes, a smile sharp as a knife and words twice as biting. A cynic's disposition and a worker's hands. 

He never remembers Enjolras by any of his names or by his face and he never reacts when they meet, but he's always there, and he never believes even after God knows how many years. Lately Enjolras has taken to praying (to what, he doesn't know) for answers. He's tried to convert the man to the cause but he stubbornly refuses each time. And then sooner or later the end comes, and Enjolras is alone, and his last thoughts are when he will see this man again. 

Of course the man has different names too, and they blend together in Enjolras' head. He will bring up memories from forty years ago and receive a blank stare in return, and barely remember to adjust for his time. But he remembers their interactions clearer than most everything else. 

Despite this, he cannot figure out why he is so inexplicably tied to this man. He just knows he's there, and for some reason it must be important. It has to be. 

*** 

In Germany in 1525, hiding from the Holy Roman Empire in a basement in the days before the battle begun, they argued over whether to fight or to negotiate. Back then Enjolras had a different name, of course, that he can't remember now, but it sounded harsh and guttural from the man's mouth as he spit it towards him, calling him stupid for even thinking about standing up and battling. Didn't he know they were outnumbered? Didn't he know that they had no chance, and that eventually even if they managed to win, the rich would just fall back in power like they always did? Why would he risk his life? 

Enjolras watched the candlelight dance in his eyes like the anger that rested behind them and thought _What do you know about futility_ and stayed silent as if it would stop the death he'd endure two days later, flames licking at his feet before the darkness swept over him. 

*** 

In Paris, the first time, with the cobbled streets practically shaking, the smell of blood in the air, the man warned him in an almost-smug tone. "You'll die," he said. "You always die." 

It made Enjolras whip around and stare at him. He knew that it couldn't be true but how could that phrasing be an accident? "What do you mean?" 

"Trying to be free," the man said, and he sounded almost sad through his smirk. "It never ends well. You never win." 

"But we can get closer and closer," Enjolras bit back, and died a week after, bayonet through his ribs, bleeding out on the bank of the Seine. 

*** 

This time when he comes to he's in Paris again, and it takes him years to find his man. His name is Grantaire and he looks at Enjolras like he shines light in the darkest places of the world. But still like he would rather remain in the dark. 

Every week, their group meets in the cafe and discusses theories and strategy, and Enjolras hasn't felt so right in lifetimes. Through it all Grantaire stares at him, as if he were trying to place him, as if he remembers his face. Each time Enjolras catches sight of him watching it sends a thrill of ridiculous hope up his spine. Maybe he isn't alone. 

One day Enjolras wakes up and has that familiar, sick-excited, high feeling in his stomach that means it's starting. The people are flooding the streets and he's above them all, shouting from balconies or carriages or even roofs. No matter how many times he does it, he never fails to get swept away. He never fails to think, rashly, foolishly, that this will be the time. 

Everyone else feels it too; that much is obvious in the solemn expressions and the way Grantaire stares his bottle down, empty-eyed and nearly fearful. As if he's bracing for an impact he knows will hurt. 

It's only weeks later that they're stacking chairs in the street and Enjolras is frozen as he watches, struck with memories of this same electric atmosphere. He tells himself that maybe it will be different; maybe he won't be the last one left. But deep inside where he stays the same through every change, he knows that he will be. 

Somehow they make it through the first night - battered, terrified, but alive. One by one they slump against the barricade and drink hard, Grantaire hardest of all, like the alcohol could erase not only their memory but the entirety of the day and its horrors. Enjolras watches and says nothing. He's learned how little human lives mean, and even though he would gladly die for any of the men before him, even though he loves them as deep and true as he's loved anyone, he's past the point of alcohol. 

He leans against the side of the cafe and closes his eyes, briefly. He wonders how it will be this time, despite his better judgement. Will it hurt? Will it be fast? 

Beside him, there's a scuffling. A bottle clinks gently against the streetstones, and before he even turns around, Enjolras knows who it is. It's like seeing his own face in a mirror at this point. And he's tired, and the waiting and wondering are too much with the smell of gunpowder and death in the air. "What are you doing?" he asks, and hears his own voice break open. 

The footsteps come around to his front and he opens his eyes to the night. Grantaire laughs, but it's wrong, it's not happy and the eyes Enjolras knows so well are devoid of mirth. "Do you have any idea how hard it is?" 

"How hard what is?" Enjolras demands. His heart is in his throat, tapping at his clavicle, and his stomach drops. 

"To watch you as you throw your life away. It's a terrible thing to waste. You burn so bright and then you're gone." 

His words brand like fire and Enjolras stumbles back. "You don't know what you're speaking of," he says numbly, mind spinning. 

"Don't I?" His smirk is cut with a sadness so deep it hurts to look at. "Your face haunts my dreams. I see you dying each night as if it were real, as if it happened in someone else's lifetime. So much pain, so many different ways, and each because you refuse to compromise or settle for anything less than your ideals. Didn't you ever consider, Apollo, light of the world, that there are other ways to be happy?" 

It's a punch in the stomach, and Enjolras feels himself crumbling like a tree rotten on the inside. His breath is gone. Grantaire dreamt of him, of all the times they'd known each other before. Could it be? 

"And try as I might, I cannot leave you." Grantaire gives his mirthless laugh again and takes a drink from his bottle. "It's as if we are linked. I feel a thread between us that I cannot break. Am I to learn something from you? I have no answers, so I thought I might ask you, since you seem to have one for everything else." 

Enjolras still cannot speak. His tongue is dry inside his mouth and he can taste the blood of the bodies on the streets, all the people in all his lives who have died by his hand or for it. And Grantaire is right; he's spent so long, given so much going after something unattainable. Why? 

He looks up to say something, but Grantaire is gone, leaving behind the sweet-heavy smell of wine and a bitter wind. 

*** 

When they come for him in the cafe, he's ready. 

Everything about the scene is expected, from the stab of fear to the acceptance that washes over him like rain. He stands in front of the window, banner clutched in hand, ready to martyr himself again like he has so many other times. He steadies himself for the shots. 

Then something so completely out of the ordinary happens that Enjolras forgets to keep himself from being scared. 

From behind the counter, Grantaire stumbles, looking like he's been blessed with the gift of sight for the first time. Like he's been struck by lightning. And Enjolras realizes several things in rapid succession. 

First, bizarrely, he thinks of a story he heard as a child once, in a life impossible to distinguish, of two lovers. They loved each other so much that when they died, they were transformed into trees that grew together, two different varieties on the same trunk, intertwined for eternity. The gods took pity on them so they never had to be apart. 

Slowly, as if waking from a very long dream, he becomes aware of every detail. His heartbeat calming. The way the fear dissolved when he met Grantaire's eyes. 

Grantaire is saying something to the guards that Enjolras can't hear over the blood pounding in his ears. The newest and most fragile feeling is blooming, taking root in him. It's freedom, real and good, so pure he can practically taste it. And as Grantaire walks over towards him and asks, "Will you permit it?" things finally, finally lock into place. 

For lifetimes, Enjolras has been trying to be free. He never looked below the lofty heights of idealism to see the human side of liberty, the part that shows how attainable it is. The weight of Grantaire's palm in his like a homecoming. His chest like a birdcage unlocked to the sun. 

This death is different, Enjolras thinks, still staring down the barrels of the guns. This time he is not alone. This time he holds the hand of a man who saw no freedom in the world until they met. This time he goes with the knowledge that to love and be loved is the oldest form of freedom there is. 

He smiles. Grantaire closes his eyes in relief, like rest after a long day. The bullets come and fill the world with light.

**Author's Note:**

> how many different times can i write this death scene? i guess we'll find out lol. 
> 
> in case you're curious, the revolutions mentioned are the german peasant's war, the first french revolution (in 1789), and of course the june rebellion. i didn't have time to go any more in depth than this (and i did barely any research so if anything is horribly inaccurate, my apologies) but i would have loved to!
> 
> comments and kudos make my day, so if you liked it, please let me know! also if you'd like to yell about e/R or les mis in general with me, my tumblr is [@shouttogether](http://weareparamore.co.vu) and i'm always down ❤


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